


Faileasan: Destiny in Charge Again

by herdingcatsphilosopher



Series: Faileasan [1]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - Outlander, Canon Divergence - Outlander, F/M, My First Fanfic, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-07-15 23:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16073183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herdingcatsphilosopher/pseuds/herdingcatsphilosopher
Summary: What would you do if you had a chance at a do-over, for redemption?Claire Fraser wants nothing more than to remain in the 18th century with her husband, Jamie. In a moment of self-sacrifice, he attempts to send her back to the relative safety of the twentieth century through the time portal of Craigh na Dun. Something goes wrong though and Claire ends up in a most unexpected year.Will Claire and Jamie be able to preserve what they had? Do they even want to? Can they fight their way through their problems to a new life?





	1. An Unexpected Reprieve (Edited)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire had just gone through the stones at Craigh na Dun. Waking up, she's disoriented and confused as she finds herself wearing the same clothes she had on when she disappeared in 1945.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's previous title was Second Time's the Charm. The story is being updated in preparation for the second half of the story. I've also changed the perspective from which this story is being told, from first to third party point of view.

She had traveled through the ley line of Craigh na Dun—again. This time, with full knowledge of what was coming, and what she was leaving behind. No, what she was going to lose.

She had tried her very best to remain conscious—enough to gain an impression of what was happening to her. And, around her. But what she heard, saw and felt, had frightened her beyond measure.

Just moments ago, she'd been suspended in a bright void, surrounded by a seething mass of trapped souls. Unearthly screams, amplified a thousand times, tortured her no end with their intensity. She was powerless—her will sublimated to the chaos enclosing her.

Then everything stopped. Reversed.

She regained a sense of time, of individuality as her consciousness returned in incremental degrees. She had formed; her corporeal body had coalesced from the void. And, she had skin. She could feel the stones' violent humming had muted to low-level vibrations.

She was shivering violently, trying to lie still, clutching at clumps of wet grass. Random shapes and lights flickered behind her eyelids. What little she had eaten that morning threatened to come up as she retched.

It's over, she told herself, gasping for breath—trying to dispel the terror still lodged in the most primordial recesses of her mind. That first time, she'd felt her essence dissolving, before coming through the other side. She'd emerged, in this century, to begin another life. With Jamie.

And now, Jamie, her husband, was gone. He had taken her to Craigh na Dun, to safety, while he remained in the 18th century. To die, he said. And there would be no reprieve for him. Not until two hundred years had passed and he would find her again. In 1945. Her time.

Unshed tears burned the back of her eyes. She would never know how Jamie died; if it was by a musket, sword, or cannon fire. Or, if he lay under the Fraser gravestone at Culloden Moor. And, there wasn't any place where she could mourn him as he deserved.

Moments passed, but she didn't move. There was time enough to begin the unwanted trek to Inverness and, a new future. At the moment, all she wanted was to savor Jamie's last kiss—feel the strong bones of his skull as she held him close, unwilling to let him go.

The earthy scent of leaves hung heavy in the cold damp air. A draft crept up Claire's skirt as she moved convulsively, drawing a shuddering breath.

"Bless me wisewoman and go," Jamie's voice whispered in her ear.

Her eyes flew open as she sat up. Her heartbeat, which had begun to return to normal, started a new thrumming. Her hand flew to her chest, fingers splayed against her left breast.

She was alone on the hill. A nearby dogwood had turned crimson, leafless branches showing off the red twigs of fall. Even more perplexing were the sparse crowns of orange, russet, and gold of the oak saplings ringing the stones.

She pushed her hair off her face in a daze, noting vaguely it was shorter than the last time she'd brushed it. Her plaid skirt and woolen underskirt were gone. She was instead, dressed in a cotton dress. But it was the sight of soft brown loafers on her feet that woke her out of her lethargy.

She froze as her right hand grazed against her left. The gold wedding band was on her finger but, Jamie's rings were not. Heart hammering in her chest, she searched the ground around her in increasing agitation.

Then she stopped. The rings were gone. She was wearing the clothes she had worn that last day in 1945.

Sweeping her hand over her breasts and below her navel, she probed the changes of her body with shaking fingers. And at the very last, lifted the hems of her dress and shift.

The silvery stretchmarks lacing over her lower abdomen had disappeared. She stilled for long moments, waiting for the sensation of otherness she'd been experiencing in the past month.

But it never came.

She screamed in agony, feeling her face stretch in rictus as she beat on the damp ground. She could not stop herself. She refused to. Curling into a ball, she allowed herself to weep, surrendering herself to the crushing grief of knowing all she had given up.

"Name him Brian for my father," Jamie had told her. They were the last words he had said to her.

She could barely draw a deep breath for the thickness in her throat. She wasn't clear on how the time portal worked; none of them did. But, Jamie had taken a chance, hoping she would return two hundred two years to her time. She should have been able to convince him, she raged. She should never have allowed him to bring her away. And, they should never have set store on the legend of the woman of Balnain.

In truth, it had never occurred to her she would fail; the knowledge of that, brought on a new batch of scalding tears, laced with bitterness and regret. Losing him was hardly worth the price of her safety. But she had agreed, to keep their baby alive. Give him a chance at life.

And now, she'd lost everything.

Time passed. She made no move to stifle her tears. Eventually, her sobs tapered off and she became aware of another problem.

She wasn't alone. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickled as she sensed the weight of prying eyes. Heart thumping wildly, she groped around her for a weapon. Her right hand closed around a large, loose rock and she clutched it, bringing it nearer her body.

The faint crackling of a twig alerted her to the intruder’s position. Leaping to a half standing crouch she whirled. Cocking her arm back, she dropped it immediately in disbelief and dawning joy.

Standing in front of her was Murtagh, Jamie's godfather, and confidante. Her friend.

I'm in the right century, she thought, tears once again threatening to blur her vision. Gone were her initial misgivings. She took a step toward Murtagh, about to cry out his name when he spoke.

“Trobhad!” he ordered.

She flinched and took a step back, unable to believe he'd spoken to her so rudely.

“Trobhad còmhla rium, ma-thà! Tha dearganach timcheall.” He stuck out his hand, plainly meaning for her to take it.

She couldn't help gaping at him. Murtagh looked healthier and better fed than when she'd seen him the previous evening. And his hair was black. There was some truth then, to what he'd been complaining to her. She and Jamie were indeed responsible for at least half his silver hair.

By some miracle, she'd landed in the right century, but she didn't know what year it was. Or the month.

"Tcha," he clucked his tongue. Then waggled his hand.

“I'm neither a goat nor sheep, and I refuse to be spoken to like one," she said, raising her voice.

"You're a sassenach," he hissed and recoiled, dropping his hand.

"Now look here. Where do you get off being so rude? And where were you going to take me?"

He paused, looked her over then took a step forward. He raised his right arm again, pistol in hand.

She hesitated. She was unsure if history was repeating itself but in a different time frame. She recalled it was Murtagh who had found her the first time she appeared in the eighteenth century. And, he was kind enough to save her from rape. If she was correct, then she had to appeal to that side of Murtagh again. That is if she wanted to see Jamie soon.

"Tell me now. What are ye doing alone on this hill, in your shift? Have ye no shame? Are ye a whore?"

There was no choice; Claire thought as she straightened and dropped the rock. Lifting open palms in a show of trust, she took a cautious step forward, pitching her voice lower to speak in a soothing tone.

"I’m a widow, a traveling healer from Oxfordshire. This morning, my manservant attacked me while I was dressing. I was able to fend him off and escape." She looked down, remembering all she had lost and choked out, "I have nothing left."

"Why did ye not go straight to the garrison at Fort William? They would have helped ye track him," he asked, pragmatic as he had ever been.

"I was so confused at the time that I did the first thing I could. I ran away. Any woman would!" She looked at him. "I climbed this hill to hide. It's also a good vantage point from which I could see if he was looking for me."

"But ye were greeting when I saw ye. Ye couldn't have seen him then," he objected.

It was a logical observation. And, Claire would have congratulated Murtagh on making it. But blast it! He had to choose this day to demonstrate a leap of intelligence.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Do you know of any woman who wouldn't cry in this situation? Was I supposed to go on as if nothing happened?" She took a tiny step nearer.

He remained impassive but lowered his arm.

"I dinna ken what ye just said but, I would have thought you'd seek help from the English," he said.

She stopped, mortified. What if the stones had sent her back earlier than 1743? Or when Jamie was a boy? There was the only way to be sure.

She took it.

"I heard gossip about a captain who commanded a garrison at Fort William. He liked to hurt people. A lot." She shuddered, remembering Black Jack Randall with revulsion. "He would not have believed me and done worse things than what my servant planned. Is he still at the fort?"

"Aye, he's still in charge. You'll have been in more danger from him," he agreed then spat on the ground.

She could have hugged Murtagh in happiness, confident she had returned between 1739 and 1743. Murtagh had just confirmed Jack Randall was the commander at the fort during that period.

"You approached me. Have you seen me before? Or did you hear about my skills as a healer in Inverness?"

He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical about her claim as a healer.

"I'm a woman, now traveling alone. You have nothing at all to fear from me. I have lost everything I've held dear except for my healing skills," she said in a subdued voice. "But I am willing to go where my help's needed," she said with more confidence.

She must have convinced him of her sincerity because he finally answered.

"Aye, lass," he said then stored his gun under his coat. "Ye might be able to help," he nodded but hesitated to say more.

She looked down, trying her best to hide her misgivings. Murtagh was a Fraser and stubborn, she knew. But if he chose not to bring her with him, she was prepared to do everything, even beg, to change his mind.

“There’s a lad who may need your help," he answered slowly, "A kinsman of mine. It’s not broken but the bone’s sticking out. Do ye know what to do about it?" he asked.

Her heart leaped to her throat. What were the odds it could be Jamie?

"It's most likely a dislocated shoulder. And yes, I've dealt with cases like those before," Claire answered with grim humor.

She didn't know who Murtagh was referring. But one thing she was sure of, was that Murtagh never strayed far from Jamie. At least, not voluntarily.

Now that Murtagh had confided in her, she decided she wouldn't give him the opportunity to change his mind. Dusting stray leaves and twigs from her dress, she asked, “Will we go then? You can tell me about this patient while we’re walking.”

To her surprise, he bowed his head slightly. "Murtagh Mclean, lass," he introduced himself.

"I'm Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp," she said, taking his hand. But she trembled as she touched him, absurdly glad to be on their way.

“Ye need not worry, I don’t hold with rape,” he assured her, mistaking the reason for her shiver. Looking up at the darkening sky he added, “But we must be on our way if we are to catch up with them. About the lad, I haven’t seen him since er—” he broke off, looking discomfited.

"It’s quite all right. There's no need to tell me more right now. I'll have to examine your kinsman myself later, to get a clear picture of what I must do," she said. "I will, of course, welcome more information later."

With typical reticence, Murtagh led her down the rocky hill toward the woods that lay northwest without an explanation.

She was startled at the sporadic musket fire she could hear in the distance. She observed Murtagh treating the incident with dour reticence—that alone made her relax more than any reassurance he could have offered.

But, it set her to thinking. Dougal’s men had an encounter with English soldiers in May. It was now autumn. If it were 1743, were events recurring since she'd arrived?

It was a heady thought. If it were true, it could be 1743. Or, at the most, 1744. Culloden hadn't happened yet as people weren't walking or riding around the countryside. She would have another chance to get Jaimie away from Scotland.

She'd have to ask Murtagh, but she'd do it later when he trusted her more.

Tendrils of cool air caressed her cheeks as she lifted her face to check their surroundings. She closed her eyes and smiled. Jamie had teased her in the same fashion as he fanned her face during one of their forays with Le Tout-Paris.

Was he safe wherever he was now? Was he even the kinsman Murtagh said needed medical attention? Was he even in Scotland?

Brooding wasn't going to get her anywhere. But as they neared the tree line, memories of Jamie at the Abbey of Ste. Anne de Beaupré assailed her.

It had taken months for him to recover from the physical and mental torture meted out by Black Jack Randall at Wentworth. But if she had avoided molestation by the same psychotic pervert, the same could happen to Jamie. She thought it possible that her return later in the year could change even more events.

She chanced a look back at the silent, sentient henge.

It had been Jamie's bane since she disclosed the truth. He'd always imagined Frank, her first husband, waiting for her in the future. And in a fit of despair that he would never recover from the horrors of Wentworth prison, Jamie had begged her to leave and return to her time. In the end, he saw the stones as a means to save her and their child.

And it was true that Craigh na Dun had loomed over their lives for the past three years. It had influenced their thoughts and decisions like a cancerous growth.

But it had given them an unbelievable, unexpected second chance.

"Lass, are ye not coming?" He was a few yards ahead of her, tapping a foot, arms crossed on his chest.

"Please wait, I'll catch up," she answered as she hurried toward him and her future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Faileasan: Reflections  
> * Trobhad: Come, in an imperative mood  
> * Trobhad còmhla rium, ma-thà! Tha dearganach timcheall: Come along with me already. There are redcoats around


	2. Stubborn as Stone (Edited)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when two widely different personalities are forced to work together?  
> Claire and Murtagh try to put as much distance between themselves and Craigh na Dun. Claire muses about the future and how her new timeline will affect future events. She tries to engage with Murtagh, realizing that she must gain his trust as he is the key to meeting up with Jamie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous chapters of Second Time's the Charm are being edited and will be posted as soon as they're ready

There was a corpse among the rocks at the edge of the woods.

She'd almost stumbled over it, lying as it was beside the mossy brook. A tattered plaid covered the remains of the chest; its colors and design had faded sufficiently to render the cloth uniformly grey.

"Murtagh," she called. Her stomach clenched in fresh agitation as she stared at the body.

He turned, eyeing her with disfavor. "Lass, ye ken it’s late and, we've some ways to go?"

Tasting bile at the back of her throat, she swallowed. "Yes. Of course, I do." Pointing at the corpse, she added, "Do you know who he is?"

Murtagh glanced down briefly then looked back at her. "There's nothing we can do, lass. He's been dead a few days, what with maggots and flies about."

"I'd like to bury him. We can't leave him here to be food for the creatures in the woods." She shuddered in fear, recalling the wolf she had killed outside Wentworth prison. It had been winter, and Jamie was imprisoned, utterly at the mercy of Black Jack Randall.

"And how are we going to do that, eh? Lass, it's only you and me, and neither of us has the tools to put him in the ground," Murtagh answered sharply.

Claire looked up at him, intending to snap back. She thought he had been unaffected but, he had crossed himself with a trembling hand.

"You're quite correct, Murtagh. We don't have time. Isn't there a Highland prayer though for the dead?"

"I know one of farewell," he said. Bowing his head, he intoned, "May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back—"

The faces of various Lallybroch tenants flashed before her. Jamie had asked Murtagh to lead them back to the estate before the battle. Had Murtagh been successful? Did he return in time to join the fighting? Had he too, died in that blasted moor?

In a low voice she could barely hear, Murtagh said, "Claire, we must go if we are to catch up with the others."

She nodded and followed him as he started to walk away. Surreptitiously wiping the tears from her face with her hands, she tried to empty her mind of all thoughts, save that she must follow him.

 

* * *

 

"Lass, ye must keep up." Murtagh had stopped again, arms crossed on his chest, waiting for her.  
  
"Give me a minute. I'm still winded from our long walk." She thought she had gotten used to walking. The stones, however, had seen fit not only to return her to her previous state in 1945—they also robbed her of new abilities she'd acquired. Such as physical stamina. And resistance to cold weather.  
  
"If it's the body you're worried about, keep the head and carry on. That poor soul cannot harm ye."

A buzz of irritation ran through her. "I know! He startled me, that's all. And, I was surprised he was left there, unclaimed by his clan."  
  
Without the slightest change in expression, Murtagh turned into a new path. She stepped up her pace, aware he was impatient to get to their destination. It was a sentiment she approved of and shared.  
  
It was most likely early afternoon but, to her surprise, she wasn't hungry. Walking had cleared her head but, she had to face up to some truths.

She was grateful for this miraculous second chance God, fate or, the stones had given them. And since she was honest with herself, she had to admit her return to the eighteenth century was a chance at redemption. Hers.

Without intending to, she had gotten Jamie into a lot of trouble. And she'd made mistakes, some with truly horrible consequences. It was through her that Jamie had, once again, drawn the attention of Black Jack Randall. If she had not asked to talk to Jamie alone at Culloden House, Dougal would not have followed them, and Jamie would not have had to kill—

She pulled herself up short. To pursue that train of thought was to diminish their efforts to stop Charles' attempt to restore the Stuart monarchy. She and Jamie had paid heavily for the privilege of trying to save Scotland. They had lost their first-born, Faith, and themselves suffered severe deprivations.

The Jacobite rebellion was impossible to prevent. Not when the success of Claire and Jamie's plan, hinged on the cooperation of many and the vagaries of fate. But maybe, just maybe, some of the mistakes she made could be rectified.

She was anxious to find Jamie, convinced he was Murtagh's "injured clansman." But, she had to give Murtagh reason to trust her or, he'd leave her behind, without remorse. And, after everything she'd experienced, she had no wish to be molested, traveling alone and on foot in the Highlands.

She wanted Murtagh's friendship back. And not only for Jamie's sake. His trust, hard-earned as it had been, was forged from their shared desire to see Jamie safe—always. Rebuilding their relationship would not be easy, she knew. Murtagh was a Highland Scot and was cautious by nature, distrusting strangers on principle.  
  
Feigning illness to gain his sympathy, was out of the question. That was deceitful. Claire had to win his respect, beginning with convincing him she was an excellent traveling companion.

_Stop whingeing, and get on with it, Beauchamp. Never forget, fate favors the bold._

"Murtagh, this kinsman of yours, does he have injuries other than the shoulder? For example, if he fell off a horse, he might have had a concussion. Or, broken an arm. At the very least, he may have lacerations down his arm," she added, puffing slightly for being winded.

He glanced back at her indifferently, returning immediately to swishing bushes out of the way.

She frowned, perplexed at his reaction. "There's an English proverb that goes 'A problem solved is a problem halved.' Is there something else troubling you, Murtagh? I might be able to offer advice from another perspective."  
  
He stopped at that and faced her, eyebrows beetling. She faltered mid-step, believing he was about to speak.  
  
To her disappointment, he turned and continued walking as if nothing happened. She bit back a tart remark, then shrugged. If he wanted to keep his secret longer, she'd leave him alone—for now.

There was a time when she would have let sharp words fly. But, walking behind Murtagh, she'd resolved to be more patient and less contentious when dealing with people. Forbearance was, after all, a desirable trait to cultivate. And, it was needed when dealing with Scots and anything Scottish including Jenny's prized goats.  
  
She smiled, thinking about her strong, determined, and feisty sister-in-law. Jenny kept a firm hand on the pulse of the daily life of her family and tenants. And nothing escaped her notice.  
  
Levity faded, replaced once more by brooding thoughts. If it were 1743, had Jamie and Jenny reconciled without her? Had she given birth to her second child, Maggie? Had Ronald MacNab reprised his role of hated informer and turned on Jamie?  
  
Had all those events come to pass even without her? Or was Jamie living freely at Lallybroch under his name, reconciled at long last with Jenny?

As if summoned, she once again heard Jamie's voice. "...This makes three times in three days you’ve doctored me—"

She had tended to his injuries from the time they met. Jamie was an attractive young man, and her awareness of him had only intensified even as their friendship deepened. And, six weeks after she'd tapped the ley lines of Craigh na Dun, Jamie married her to protect her life.

Her mind served up a memory of groping, urgent hands and warm limbs tangled together on decadent, soft, warm fur. And, she could feel once again, a cascade of breath-stealing kisses turning urgent in a heartbeat.  
  
On their wedding night, Jamie had reassured her, “Don’t be afraid; there's the two of us now.”

He wasn't with her now and, she missed him dreadfully, craving the comfort and security she had always found in his arms. She didn't know if they could recover what they had, believing as she did, that propinquity had played a role in fueling his attraction. It was one of the reasons she could not acknowledge their growing awareness of each other. But, circumstances were now different. This time, she had to know if they would have a second chance at a life together.

Murtagh was several yards ahead, so she hurried, catching up with him quickly on the level ground.  
  
"Around May this year, there was a wonderful blood red full moon. Were you able to observe it?" she asked chattily. Murtagh continued plodding on. "The people in Glasgow were so amazed though the women were a bit frightened. They hadn't seen one in more than six years!"  
  
Murtagh didn't even twitch. Peering up the sky, she judged it was most likely early afternoon. It was time to make a more determined stab at a conversation.

"So, how old is my patient, Murtagh? Is he generally in good health?"

He refused to answer—again. Claire sighed. She didn't like being purposefully hateful but, pride made her needle him for answers and more information. She would sooner have Murtagh think her willful than commit a mistake where Jamie was concerned.

"I do need to know a little bit more about your kinsman and, his injury."

Murtagh ignored her completely. 

It had been a long time since Lamb had sent her to the corner for chattering too much. But, she was spoiling for a fight, no matter how idiotic the reason. She was like a ball of gnarled yarn, all twisty inside that a good hard tug could unravel. All her pent-up stress needed an outlet, and anyone would do, including Murtagh.

"Where on earth are you taking me, Murtagh?" She raised her voice. "And why are you walking? Don't you own a bloody horse?"  
  
He merely looked back at her, stoic as usual.

"Don't you think this might be a good time for you to share more information about the patient I'll be seeing? What's his name? And how old is he?"

"Here," he bit out, turning away from the thickets into an open field.

They moved free from the bushes, Murtagh framed in a fugitive ray of sunlight. "Aside from the problem with his shoulder, does he have other wounds?" she repeated the question.

This time, Murtagh didn't even look back.

"Keep your secrets then," she said bitterly. "Too bad though. You'd given some away when you were a chatterbox at the stones." She dropped back a step, not wishing to see him.  
  
"God almighty! Could ye not stop your blethering for a moment!" he seethed, rounding on her.  
  
Surprise quickly followed her triumph at having succeeded in getting prodding him to talk. But, she refused to cower. “Hit me and let's see how you'll like it when I retaliate," she hissed.  
  
To her surprise, he crossed his arms and looked straight at her.

"What's with ye, lass? I don't hit women. Ye said you're not a whore, but now ye talk about the moon and the sun and darkness. Are ye a witch?"  
  
Of all things he could have imagined, she was stunned he’d conclude that. Memories of her ordeal at the witch trial flashed before her—of the panic, terror, and fury of those days in the thieves’ hole.

"Fine! You don’t believe I am who I say. You've made it quite clear. So, who or what in bloody hell do you think I am?” She drew herself to her full height and stepped closer.  
  
"It doesn't sit well with me that ye didn't bring anything more with ye when ye left your camp." He lowered his arms, plainly incensed and clenched his fists.  
  
She glared at him. "He was taller and bigger than I was. When I saw him coming toward me, I ran off. I wasn’t planning to stay and knock him on the head."  
  
"Och, I don't know if that's the truth," he snapped back.  
  
She rolled her eyes heavenward. "And I'm supposed to accept what you say as gospel truth?"  
  
"I don't know what 'gospel truth' is. But know this. I was only supposed to scout for redcoats. Then I saw ye, greeting at the stones. So, I waited for ye to calm down. But, ye dawdled and took your time about it!" he jeered. "I couldn't leave ye at the stones though I didn't want to leave the lad alone."  
  
"When you said you had a kinsman who needed looking after, I didn't think it would take this long to reach him. Traveling in one's shift through a forest, during a rain shower is uncomfortable. It also raises questions," she said acidly.  
  
"We are not idiots!" He took another step toward her and raised his voice. "We had a second plan we agreed on if we were separated. The men we were with, took the lad and our horses with them." He took a deep breath. "I don't know all of them. The leader is the lad's uncle, but I can only count on two others to help if needed. No more than that. Now, will ye leave off with your questions, lass?"  
  
He was talking about Jamie. It was Jamie after all, she exulted. But Murtagh was waiting for an answer.  
  
"I apologize but, you have to admit, you cannot fault me for worrying. Not after the morning, I had." She took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Then counted to three and softened her voice.  
  
"I did think it would be pleasant to talk to you, perhaps relieve your mind of your worries and pass the time. I truly want to help so please, let me know once you're comfortable enough to share."

He nodded, and they set off again.  
  
She was ambivalent, torn between optimism and shame. Murtagh had put the safety of a stranger above his own, but she had repaid his chivalry with anger. And she had not only upset him. Her words made him distrust her even more.  
  
Murtagh had been the closest person she had to a father-in-law, so she was inclined to be more forgiving, where he was concerned. He was also one of three people she could trust to keep Jamie safe. And she had to remember that. Always.  
  
He suddenly stopped. Skidding to avoid colliding with his back, Claire whirled her arms to keep her balance. She managed to accomplish that. Barely.  
  
Tapping his shoulder in annoyance, she looked around him and caught her breath.  
  
Smoke was curling from the chimney of a familiar-looking cottage about ten yards away. With her heart pounding in anticipation, she barely restrained herself from running to the hut, convinced Jamie was inside.  
  
Murtagh put out a warning hand. "Careful, lass. There aren't any horses in front. Let's circle the hut first."

The lone horse, tethered near a lean-to, convinced her to heed his advice. Where were the other men he mentioned? Had Dougal's party been ambushed? Would they be met with carnage once they opened the door?  
  
Approaching the cottage stealthily, they did their best to keep out of sight of the window. After a few moments, they heard children wailing in pain.  
  
As Murtagh's shoulders tensed, her heart started pounding in fear. She shadowed him closely, walking as quietly as she could while they kept to a circuitous path to the door.  
  
Signaling her to remain where she was, he took out his pistol and knife, pushed the door ajar and disappeared inside.  
  
Everything went quiet.  
  
After a few heartbeats, she heard the low register of male voices and a woman's higher-pitched, frightened one. Children were sobbing, the volume increasing with each passing moment.  
  
She couldn't bear to wait any longer. She reached for the door even as Murtagh reappeared and beckoned her to enter.


	3. Lost and Found (Edited)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their disagreement, Murtagh leads Claire to the rendezvous point. While there, she's called on to provide medical services to a cottar's family. Could this be one way to redeem herself in Murtagh's eyes?

Jamie and the others weren't there.

Murtagh walked up to a slight brown-haired man of medium height. He had a face with unremarkable features, Claire thought. It would be easy for the cottar to go anywhere and remain unnoticed, except the man was frowning, belligerence evident in the tilt of his chin. With his arms out, he appeared to be shielding a blond woman and two children behind him.

Hiding them from her, she realized with a twinge of bitterness. The cottar distrusted her, though she had done nothing to warrant suspicion. She was once again an outlander, even in this most humble of abodes.

Trudging to a stool by the fireplace, she sank on it, allowing her body to sag. She unclenched her fists, closed her eyes, taking deep breaths to remain calm. She had to believe she would not lose Jamie today.

Who were the two men Murtagh said he could trust? Were they Rupert and Angus? Her eyes flew open, pulse racing. Jamie had avoided further injury that night only because of her interference and stubbornness. Had Rupert succeeded in breaking his arm in her absence?

Her mind cleared, and she saw the woman staring at her, an arm around each child. She looked back, puzzled at the familiar face though she was confident she'd never met her before.

Murtagh was in deep conversation with the cottar. She caught the word 'sassenach' and the contemptuous look the other man threw her way.

She glowered back and stood, to storm up to them. It was the worst thing the man could say right now. She'd been unjustly provoked and fueled by disappointment, was determined to get at the truth.

"Murtagh, have you asked this - this person if anyone tried to fix your kinsman's shoulder? I have known people try to push the arm back by force. Doing that would only worsen the injury," she warned.

The stranger looked astonished at her interruption. "Nay lass. But this is not your concern. Ye should bide till you’re called." He shook his head disapprovingly.

Claire responded with a glare.

Ignoring her, the man turned to Murtagh. "Dinna fash, Uncle. The poor lad wasn’t having anyone touching his arm though he was fair out of his head with pain. He refused even Elspeth's help! Dougal said he could wait till they got to Leoch for Mistress Jenna's help."

There followed a heated exchange in Gaelic she could barely understand. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the woman had shepherded the children to the fireplace and was shredding leaves into a pot over the fire. It was all Claire could do not to walk over and see what she was brewing. Discovering how Jamie was faring took precedence over everything else, including, would-be patients.

With a sigh of frustration, she turned back to Murtagh. First, she'd first ferret out the truth, she decided. Then, she'd sort out whatever was happening with the children next.

"They left ye a horse tied behind the shed," the man was saying. "You’re to follow them," he rushed on, seeing Murtagh's face darken.

Murtagh frowned then introduced the shorter man with a jerk of his head.

"Mistress Claire Beauchamp, Artair Ross. He said the others left, not an hour past. We may still catch up with them if we leave soon."

Artair leered at her, stroking his chin in speculation.  
"They didn’t say ye were traveling with a whore. I dinna think the men will mind though. They're always up for company." He chuckled at his joke.

"I am not a whore," she snapped. Murtagh squinted at her, but she refused to back down.

"Think what you want to, but I'm a healer, and Murtagh brought me with him to check on a patient." Glancing back at the children by the hearth she added, "You may need my services yet."

Artair raised his eyebrows. "She's rude, Uncle, though toothsome. Ye should have let her keep her clothes on, but Rupert will be pleased with this one."

"You bloody bastard," she hissed. "Stop talking about me as I weren't here. How dare you judge me for my lack of clothes. My manservant, a person I trusted, attacked me this morning. I was lucky to escape with my life!"

"You’re still in your shift …" Artair said, trying to talk over her but she raised her voice.

"I am the victim of an assault, and that's all you have to say? That I'm still in my shift? I didn't want to walk all over the highlands in my thin dress, on a cold autumn day."

A twinge of shame made her pause. She had to maintain the lie at least until she'd caught up to Jamie, but it didn't make it easier on her conscience. Clamping down on her guilt, she pushed it deep down with other unpleasant memories.

"I am lucky I've lost only my trunks," she said in a more reasonable tone. "I assure you, it could have been much worse. It was a choice between rape and possible death or walking around the highlands in my shift in late autumn."

"Aye, I ken ye have a point. But why did your servant pick this day? Could be he was at the end of his rope, and he wanted to sample your wares himself."

"Stop it, both of ye!" Murtagh said in a stern voice before she could slap the man.

"Do ye doubt me, Artair? I already told ye, she's not a whore, ye numpty!"

Ignoring the other man, she stared at Murtagh. "So, was the young man left alone?"

"Aye, that's what this gowk said. Artair likes the sound of his voice, so he keeps on talking beyond what’s decent and right."

Nodding her thanks, Claire left them and walked toward the trio by the hearth. She approached them slowly seeing the children's sobs had subsided.

"Feasgar math," she called out to the woman. "I'm Claire Beauchamp, and I'm a healer. Your son has been holding his arm while your little girl has been sitting on the floor, crying. Would you like to tell me what happened? I may be able to help.”

"Elspeth Ross, Mistress," she said with a small bob. "This is Hew," she nodded at the boy "and Annag," she added, caressing the head of the girl.

"Please, call me Claire. Mistress sounds so stiff." Claire knelt on the floor to examine Hew’s arm.

“And what about you a chuilein? Do you want to tell me how you came to injure your arm?”

The children, sent out to play when Dougal's party arrived, climbed one of the apple trees to watch the proceedings. On the way down Annag lost her grip on a branch and crashed into Hew. He managed to break his sister's fall but in the process, broke his arm. Annag was fortunate. She survived their misadventure without a scratch.

Claire could see the broken radius and bent ulna clearly in her mind. She could help with that, but she tested for nerve injury first.

“Have you given them anything for the pain, Elspeth?” she asked quietly.“

Aye, I have. I gave Hew and Annag chamomile tea with laudanum,” she answered. Lines of stress appeared on her forehead. “Was that wrong?”

“Not quite. Often, it's best to check for all possible injuries before administering laudanum.” She stopped seeing Elspeth's brow furrow, and her eyes lower to her clasped hands.

"Concussion is tricky to diagnose," she said "So there's no need to fret about it. We'll try to keep both awake a bit longer in case one of them has it though. Now, could you hand over that lit candle over there?”

Taking the candle from Elspeth, she passed it over Hew’s face, instructing him to look at it.

“The brain swells during a concussion and your patient may show signs of disorientation. The pupils of their eyes won't shrink in size when they look at the flame of a candle or lamp."

She did the same to Annag, before handing the candle back to Elspeth. Continuing with her examination, she gently flexed and rotated Hew’s hand.

Claire stood, smiling at Elspeth in reassurance. "They don't seem to have other problems. We're also fortunate Hew isn't exhibiting signs of nerve injury. I'm going to need wood splints for his arm though as I would prefer to set his arm now before it swells even further."

She looked at Artair who had fallen silent and was now watching them.

"I'll let you know the length and thickness of the splints but could you ask Artair to make them soon? You'll have to begin making supper in another hour or so, Elspeth."

Elspeth nodded then walked over to her husband. As much as she disliked their host, Claire believed he was protective of his children and was fond of his wife. She didn't think there was going to be a problem persuading Artair to help.

Claire smiled at the children as she sat on the stool. Hew tried to return her smile while Annag stood beside her brother, clutching his hand.

"You're a brave lad Hew, and I'm honored to have you as my patient. I'm going to check your pulse now if you don't mind."

She looked at Annag and held out a hand. "Would you like to watch what I'm doing, leannan?"

Annag took a step toward her and leaned trustingly against her side. Claire curled an arm around her thin shoulders and squeezed.

Faith would have been her age had she lived. Would she have been as sweet as Annag? And her second baby, would he have grown up to be as courageous as Hew? As stoic in the face of physical hurt?

She cleared her throat, looking down at Annag. It wasn't the time nor the place to give in to emotion. Hew had to come first.

"Now, no more climbing trees in for you in the months to come," she teased Annag. "Unless you wear breeches first!"

Annag giggled, and Claire's heart turned over. She couldn’t help herself as she leaned and kissed the side of the girl's head.

Turning to Hew, she took his left arm. She'd developed a technique for pulse-taking that was accurate enough but required concentration. Ignoring the adults on the other side of the room, she bent to her task.

"… she could be a witch for all we know …" Artair's voice intruded on her thoughts. "Haud your wheesht, Elspeth! I dinna trust her whatever ye say, Murtagh."

Frowning, she turned her head toward them. A storm of Gaelic erupted from the men as Elspeth hurried back to her. Claire looked at Hew and smiled in reassurance. Whatever Artair’s objections were, she would not allow him to shirk his responsibilities.

Removing her arm from Annag's shoulder, she whispered, "I'll be back soon. Now, watch over your brother. Sing to him if he wants."

She stood as Elspeth reached them.

"I am sorry, Claire. Murtagh and I …" she said in an apologetic voice, but Claire interrupted her.

"It's fine, Elspeth," she said and patted the other woman's shoulder. "I understand enough Gaelic to know when someone’s a right old bastard."

Looking back at Elspeth she said, "Allow me to explain to Artiar what Hew needs. Stay here, brew some more tea. Once it’s on the boil, add about five drops of laudanum to one-fourth of a cup. I’ll use it later to ease Hew's pain."

She strode off, trusting in Elspeth's good sense to do what she asked.

Stepping up to Artair, she said evenly, "You seem to have a problem with my request for splints. If you had a question about Hew's injury, all you had to do was ask. Now, what is it you need to know before you decide to get them?"

Artair narrowed his eyes as a vein throbbed on his forehead. Murtagh laid a hand on his forearm in warning, but the younger man shook it off.

“It's autumn anyway. Branches are lying around. You might even have pieces of firewood we could use."

Red stained Artair’s cheeks and neck as he raised a fist and shook it in her face. "My wife's in a hurry to do you’re bidding. Are ye a witch and you've spelled her to go against me? It's not your place to tell me what to do with my weans! You're in my house, and by all that's holy ye will not order me about!" he yelled.

Painful memories from the Crainsmuir witch trial assailed her. She'd been accused in the same manner by villagers who had benefited from her help.

Stiffening, she glared back at him. "How dare you, you little man!" she hissed. "Your wife has more sense than you which is why she listened to me. Your son has a greenstick fracture. Do you even know what that means?"

"Listen to yourself," Murtagh said as he stepped between them. "You're fair daft in the head, man. Think twice before ye hit her," he said in a low, threatening voice.

"There are two bones in a person's arm," she said coldly. "One is the radius, and it's broken. I could feel the ends through the skin. The second bone is the ulna, and in Hew's case, it's no longer aligned correctly."

Seeing his confusion, she added, "I can fix it, Artair. I’ll set his arm so the bones will heal straight, but I have to do it immediately."

"I'll not take the word of a witch and a sassenach whore!" he sputtered.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! You obstinate, superstitious, opinionated Scot!”

Glowering at Artair, she added "This is not my first time dealing with fractures. Now, you can help your son by finding those splints I need so his bones will heal well!"

"You’re off your head if ye think I'll do your bidding!"

"It's senseless to argue about it." She threw up her arms. "Artair, you know it's the right thing to do. Would you cripple Lachlan permanently because you're too damn proud to listen to a woman?"

He blanched and shook his head. His shoulders slumped.

"Look, I’m on your side," she said in a softer voice. "I want Hew to have the use of both arms. He has the right to a future whether on this farm or elsewhere. But he won't have one if I do not attend to his arm today. Artair, please. Let me help your family with this."

Murtagh put an arm around his shoulder. This time, it was allowed to stay. "You’re lucky the lass is a healer. Would ye rather Hew grow to be a beggar? Are ye fair foolish not to listen to her advice?"

Artair looked at her, his wife and children and sighed. "Of course, I’m not. Tell me again what ye need."

 

* * *

  
To her surprise, he already had two pieces of sanded wood in the length she needed. She wondered at that, then shrugged. It wasn't her concern. She was just grateful he had finally accepted her advice.

Splinting Hew's arm was a straightforward affair now that her relationship with Artair had improved. He followed her instructions to the letter, even anticipated what she needed. He had proven so helpful that Elspeth left them alone. 

Seated at a table, Claire was crooning a song, enjoying the warmth of Annag’s body on her lap as Artair had put his son to sleep. 

Elspeth sat beside her. "Do ye have bairns of your own, Claire?"

“No, I don't," she said as she firmly squashed a pang of sadness. "But I enjoy being around children. And this little one missed her afternoon nap today.”

"Aye, that she did! But let me take Annag. She’s fallen asleep already.”

Freed of the child's weight, Claire stood and stretched. She walked to the hearth, peering inside one of the pots.

"Is that marigold you're boiling there, Elspeth? Are you going to use that as a wash or tea? We can make an ointment using wax as well. That will keep longer so you won't have to boil marigold every time you need to clean a wound."

The other woman smiled while Claire gaped at her.  
Jenny. Elspeth reminded her of her sister-in-law, despite the difference in coloring. She took a deep breath then decided.

"I'd like to do something more for you, but I need to know what medicines and herbs you already have."  
"I ken ye may need laudanum and marigold. I also have comfrey," Elspeth answered.

Claire grinned. "Comfrey! There's a reason it's called knit-bone, Elspeth. You could include it in Hew’s diet, and we could make a poultice of what's left. You knew what we'd need, didn't you?"

"Well, my sister is an herb-woman, and she was always nattering about plants and tisanes—exactly what you’re doing now. I know she'd have liked to discuss this with ye, given a chance."

Claire laughed. "Let's get on with it then."

 

* * *

 

The light from the window was dimming fast by the time they finished. Claire looked at the sleeping children, wondering what had happened to them during the Jacobite rebellion. Would they survive the famine after Culloden? Did they suffer during the violent clearances of the English? There were no real answers to her questions. But she'd do her best. She could not save Charles Stuart, but she might be able to help this small family.

Murtagh, who disappeared once she'd finished splinting Hew's arm, returned.

"Tis time to go, Claire," he said in a quiet voice. "We'll be too far behind the others if we stay much longer. I'll be out to saddle the horse."

Artair approached, offering a small cloth-covered packet.

"It’s only bannocks," he said, "but you'll be glad of them if ye intend to ride all night."

She thanked him for his thoughtfulness. As she turned toward the door, Elspeth touched her arm.  
"Before ye go, there are some things I'd like ye to have."

She tried to decline, but Elspeth was insistent."My weans will be fine thanks to ye. Hew will still have a future on the farm. I have no coin to pay ye with, but you'll need warm clothes if you're riding in this weather," Elspeth murmured.

Surrendering to the inevitable, she put on the clothes Elspeth held out to her. The skirt was folded over her waist and secured with her belt. Claire fingered the skirt and shirt. These were of better quality than what the other woman wore.

"Leave those on," Elspeth answered when Claire protested again. "I'm comfortable in my clothes," she added. "I won't have ye meeting Glenna Fitzgibbons in your shift and have the castle folk look down on ye. You're a good woman Claire, worthy of respect."

Claire threw up her hands in exasperation. "I will not deprive you of the things you need!"

"Murtagh told us what happened. I'm so glad ye got away! Now hush!" she said with a smile. "There's one last thing for ye."

She thrust a bolt of grey cloth into Claire's arms. Laying it on the table, Claire unwrapped the bundle then froze.

Flustered, she looked up at Elspeth. "Where on earth did you get it? This cloth is a Fraser tartan. I can't take it!"

"Ye can and ye will," Elspeth answered, steel in her voice. "The plaid was my aunt's, and it's mine to use or give away if I choose."

It was a magnificent gift from a woman who could ill afford such a generous gesture. Claire barely held back her tears at the unexpected kindness.

Elspeth reached out and touched Claire's hair lightly. She froze at the contact unsure how to act. Then Elspeth took both of Claire's hands in hers.

"A part of ye longs for a family, to spend your life in quiet with a husband and bairns. But a choice is looming up before ye. Claire, ye must heed the voices of your people calling out behind ye."

Claire gasped. Elspeth's hands released hers, returning to the plaid on the table. Her eyes followed the hands now stroking the bright red checks of the tartan. Looking at it closely, Claire saw the faint white stripe running through the design. It was the tartan for the Lallybroch Frasers she realized.

In her mind's eye, she saw once more the men of Lallybroch, gallantly marching behind their Laird. Tasted the bitterness of dread as she signed the Deed of Sasine ceding Lallybroch to James Fraser Murray. Finally, cold wind pulled at her as she stood on Culloden Moor with Frank, clan stones dotting the ground before her. How many of those buried were people she knew?

The fine hairs on her arm and nape rose, and she shivered.

"My mam was a Fraser, ye ken. Murtagh is an uncle, twice removed," Elspeth said quietly. "It’s said in the highlands, some abilities are passed on through the female line. You’ll not forget Claire.” Her eyes cleared and she smiled.

“Remember always, what's for you will no go by ye!"

Claire stared at her, unable to speak for the tears blocking her throat.

"Have ye ever worn an earasaid?" Elspeth asked practically, winding the garment around her.

"Yes, yes, I did," was all she managed to say. She could go no further as bittersweet memories of being at Lallybroch assailed her. Of reading in the parlor after dinner. Or working in the still room with Jenny nearby. And always, wonderful nights spent making love with Jamie.

She looked away, blinking away hot tears that had finally escaped. 

“Tis what it is, Claire. Some things have not yet come to pass.”

She hugged Elspeth on impulse.

"Thank you. I'll return the earasaid as soon as I can."

"Tcha! There's no need. Among other things, it’s for your kindness to me and mine. If it helps ye get along with the folks at Leoch, then I couldn’t ask for more.”

She tweaked a fold in the earasaid. “You’re such a bonny lass, Claire!" she exclaimed. "And the colors become ye. It's as though ye were meant to wear this plaid. Now, mind Mrs. Fitzgibbons, the chatelaine. She's kind but will smother ye if she likes ye."

Elspeth stepped away, gently pushing Claire to the door.

"Haste ye back, Claire."

 

* * *

 

Murtagh's eyes widened as she stepped outside. He looked beyond her to Elspeth framed in the doorway. Claire stopped as well, feeling a skein of tension between them.

After a few moments, he nodded at Elspeth curtly, breaking their connection, and turned to Claire. "Glad you're all covered now. Goosebumps do not suit ye," Murtagh said gruffly then walked away.

With a final wave of her hand at Elspeth, Claire followed, feeling oddly content.

Strange how a piece of cloth could change her perspective on things, she mused. She had missed wearing the Fraser tartan. The heavy wool draped around her familiarly, providing warmth and comfort. And for the first time that day, she felt capable of facing her future with equanimity.

She stole a glance at Murtagh as they walked to the tethered horse, touched again at his support. Even that afternoon when he had no cause yet to trust her, he took her side against Artair, his kinsman.

"I swear, I'll repay you for all your kindness one day," she said under her breath.

Claire mounted first, expecting him to follow. To her surprise, he stepped back to walk beside her.

"They went this way," Murtagh said.

"I'd like to check up on Hew in a few weeks. Would you bring me back by then? I'd also like to make sure Elspeth's store of medicines will last them through winter."

"Yer a mouthy lass, but a kind one as well. And brave to face up to Artair." He shook his head. "Thank ye for seeing to their health, even his. I ken ye dinna have to, seeing how the numpty was carrying on."

She laughed softly, too tired to hide her amusement. The full moon rose with its strange orange cast. She was about to point it out to Murtagh when he stopped.  
She shifted, waiting for him to mount. When he didn't, she looked down at him.

Murtagh was peering up at her, his face visible in the moonlight. Then, his beard parted as one corner of his mouth lifted in a rare smile.

"Jamie," he announced. "My kinsman's name is Jamie Fraser."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chuilein: my laddie  
> Deed of Sasine: in Scottish law is the delivery of feudal property, typically land  
> Dinna fash: don't worry  
> Doaty: stupid  
> Feasgar math: good afternoon  
> Gowk: awkward or foolish man  
> Haud your wheesht: keep quiet  
> Leannan: sweetheart  
> Numpty: stupid person  
> Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye: what's meant to happen will happen  
> Uncail: uncle


End file.
